


He Won't Even Notice I'm Gone

by AnnieGrimmons101



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Broken Bones, Fever, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Rape Aftermath, Torture, Whump, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 09:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18029327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieGrimmons101/pseuds/AnnieGrimmons101
Summary: While enjoying a few moments away from Camelot in his little nest in the mountains, Merlin is discovered by some bandits who have nefarious plans for him.





	He Won't Even Notice I'm Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Please for the love of Freyja read the tags first.

Crack.

 

And then falling. 

 

Falling.

 

Wind rushing through Merlin’s feathers. 

 

Not enough strength even to flail in the sky. 

 

He can see the little hole in the cliff face that holds his nest, wonders if the hunters will ransack it now. Will they steal his hoard of shiny things, even though they hold so little real value? Merlin wonders whether the hunters will take the box of kittens he saved from a cruel drowning, or whether they will even bother with his nest, instead coming to collect their kill and stuff him and display him like a trophy. 

 

Crack. 

 

Merlin hits a tree. It does nothing to slow his fall. He crashes through limb after limb until his screams of pain turn into numbed silence, until his vision is red and darkened from all the blood in his eyes. Finally, Merlin hits one last time, on solid ground.

 

He lands on top of his wing. 

 

Crack.

 

And then darkness. 

  
  
  


Merlin jolts awake as someone dumps water over him, the shock of cold bringing an unwelcome amount of feeling back into his broken, twisted limbs. His wings, he can feel as he whimpers, are broken. Probably irreparably; there are three major points of pain in the right wing, and one in the left. Several dark voices chuckle as he quietly cries, trying not to move on the cold, sticky stone floor. 

 

It’s sticky because Merlin has been bleeding. They don’t mean to help or heal him. He’s probably back at Camelot, doomed to burn at dawn, and the King is just  _ waiting  _ for the opportunity to hear his anguished screams. 

 

One of the guards grabs Merlin’s face none-too-gently, and something extremely unpleasant gets shoved into Merlin’s mouth.

 

Oh, this isn’t Camelot.

 

Camelot guards aren’t this cruel. 

 

The man chokes Merlin with his penis, shoving it harder down his throat to muffle his cries, and then forces Merlin to swallow what he gives him by clapping an unyielding hand over his mouth once he is done with the torture. Laughter rings through the cell as Merlin tries to make himself throw up, disgusted and violated and  _ scared _ ,  but he can’t muster the strength he needs to do much more than cough pitifully. 

 

Another one grabs him by the wing.

 

Merlin shrieks in pain, thrashing in the man’s hold, trying to kick, or bite, or  _ anything _ . They all -- three or more men -- kick him until the agony from all his broken bones keeps him down. Then they kick him more. One of them drags his head up by the hair, and repeats the same torture his fellow guard had done. 

 

He feels dirty when they all leave, used up, worthless.

 

They leave him totally alone, so he can’t imagine they were really there to guard him.

 

Anyone with an ounce of common sense would know Merlin’s helpless. 

  
  
  


“Rise and shine, buttercup,” croons a man’s voice. There’s a hand in Merlin’s hair. He tries to jolt, to jump up, to fight. It hurts too badly. Merlin stops struggling. “That’s more like it…” 

 

Merlin can’t move without it hurting. He can’t stop the man from touching him. He can’t even see the man’s face, his eyes are so awash with blood and tears. The touches escalate. And escalate. And escalate. 

 

He’s crying from pain, the man hurts him hurts him hurts him--

 

“Such a good little birdie,” the man praises. Merlin’s skin would crawl if it had the energy. The petting continues, like the man thinks he’s being nice, somehow. Maybe he is, letting Merlin live, but Merlin would rather have chosen death. 

  
  
  


Death does not come easy. 

 

They torture him with a variety of different devices. “Physicians” bumble in and out leisurely, taking samples of Merlin’s blood or skin or hair or feathers in whichever way they think will be the most painful for him. One comes in with a handsaw. Merlin’s face is already stained with every sort of grime imaginable -- blood, vomit, piss, everything -- so all his tears do is wash a tiny bit off. His tears have run dry, though. All Merlin can do when the sick doctor puts saw to bone is scream. 

 

When Merlin wakes, he is still chained and hanging from his metal contraption, which might have been an upturned bed frame before it, too, was twisted. Along the table before him are samples of himself -- vials and vials of blood, more than Merlin should ever have lost. Feathers from every part of his wings are burnt or bent in whichever way they thought would give them answers. Locks of Merlin’s dark hair from every part of his body --  _ especially  _ that part, they took great joy in painstakingly plucking his manhood clean and then molesting him -- are encased in ribbon or put into bottles. Chunks of flesh and skin and bone and marrow lay on full display in front of Merlin. They took enough from his left arm to make it useless for the rest of his life, but couldn’t have had the common fucking decency to just take the whole damned appendage.

 

It aches for its missing pieces. It will never fully heal.

 

“You puzzle me, birdie,” says a voice,  _ the  _ voice, Merlin panics and thrashes in his bonds,  _ no don’t hurt me please no no no not again no-- _ “We haven’t fed you in two weeks, and you’ve still got tears to cry. It’s impressive. But more than that, it’s annoying.” He leans in close, so close that Merlin can smell wine on his breath. “I’m giving you my sovereign permission,” gloats the man, “go ahead and  _ die _ .”

 

Somehow, that does it. Merlin slips into nothingness. 

  
  
  


He supposes it’s heaven. It’s nothing to sniff it, obviously, and it’s inescapably better than where he must have died, it just… looks a bit more like Lady Morgana’s chambers than he imagined. Merlin steps over to what must be the bed allotted to him for all of eternity. Someone moves beneath the covers.

 

Morgana sits up, horror written across her face. 

 

Suddenly, Merlin’s limbs all twinge with pain, and shackles materialize on his hands and feet, and he crumbles to her bedroom floor. “ _ Help me _ !” he begs her, but then her familiar beautiful face is gone. 

  
  
  


Apparently, Merlin did not die. Just passed out, as should be expected after long hours of extreme torture. He wakes up to a group of men taking turns with him. Merlin wishes he had died. His wings can’t carry him away, his left arm is useless, both of his legs and feet are still broken in several places…

 

He isn’t sure if what’s trickling out of him is semen or blood. It’s probably both. 

 

When they have had their fun and decide to leave him be, Merlin’s mind goes to happier places to escape the pain. His mind’s eye alights on Arthur. Perfect, golden, true. He misses his prince. Then it wanders until it finds Morgana. Was that real? Probably not. Was it better than a nightmare? Absolutely. What about his little bundle of kittens -- did the hunters take them, drown them, string them up like they’ve done to Merlin? 

 

Merlin passes back out, slipping into blissful darkness.

  
  
  


Someone decided it would be funny for Merlin to try to fight in his current state. They toss him in a pit, still shackled, still twisted, still broken, with another contender. Merlin can’t get up, so he just lays in the mud and waits for his pain to end. Through all the jeers and the shouts and the bets being placed, Merlin can hear the advance of someone towards him. The mud squelches under their feet.

 

“Get up!” complain several men at once. Merlin tries his best, but his hand slips and he crunches his left arm beneath himself. His scream is deafening. If he doesn’t die here, he’ll die from infections later. No one bandaged any of the wounds they gave him. 

 

He tries again to get up, to look his death in the eye and treat it as a blessing, just another part of life, like his mother used to tell him. Merlin will go to a better place; the gods will look after him, and heal his broken bones, and he will worship them for it. But he has to be brave.

 

Merlin makes eye contact with his killer. 

 

They drop to their knees before him, already sobbing. Merlin thinks he recognizes their eyes, maybe, but their face is just as dirty as his. Soft, tender brown eyes… He sinks back into the mud, in pain but, strangely, at peace. 

  
  
  


Even though Merlin has been rescued, he can’t bear to have Lancelot touch him. His hands burn Merlin’s skin, even when he doesn’t touch anything that’s broken. Some touching Merlin understands -- he knows he can’t walk on his own, he can’t eat without his hands, his wings need constant readjustment that Merlin doesn’t have the muscle strength to do alone. He still can’t let Lancelot put his right arm back in its socket, even though it would only take a second and then he could eat on his own. It hurts, burns too much. 

 

Lancelot worries over him day and night, feeding him, rearranging his damaged limbs, trying to splint his crippled wings in his sleep -- Merlin woke up immediately and nearly broke another bone in self-defense, but he does appreciate the effort. One of his kneecaps is, apparently, shattered. Merlin doesn’t know when that happened, but he does know he is forever lame in his right leg. His right wing is likewise destroyed, mangled beyond recognition, and of course Merlin’s left arm still screams for the huge slice of bone taken out of it. 

 

Thankfully, the flesh and skin they took is starting to heal a little and scar over. At the end of the day it won’t look pretty, but Merlin’s looks are the last thing on his mind. He’s more worried about the constant state of throbbing pain that refuses to go away. Sometimes it thunders behind his temples as well in the worst headaches the world has to offer. 

 

No matter how much or how often Lancelot cleans the wounds, he can’t seem to get everything out. Dirt and grime and metal shavings are buried deep in Merlin’s flesh, making his every breath agony. Infection comes, and with it, fever. 

 

Merlin swims between semi-consciousness and complete absence during his sickness, only ever really registering the pain. Once it goes away, he goes back to sleep out of bliss. He gets horribly jostled when Lancelot carries him from campsite to campsite, and being settled on the ground is never a good time. Thankfully, the fever usually puts him under as soon as he’s stationary. 

 

Cold cloths dab across his forehead, swab out his cuts again and again. Lancelot will never get all of the dirt, all of the infection out. Merlin is going to die in this wood, and it doesn’t scare him. He’s ready to rest. His best friend isn’t ready to lose him, though, and that makes Merlin cling to life harder than fear ever could. For Lancelot. He has to stay for Lancelot. 

 

At some point, Lance must have managed to splint his wings. His legs are likewise bound, and Merlin finds he can move his shoulder, if he really tries. His left arm, however, just has a bandage to be changed daily. There’s nothing Lancelot can do for it. Merlin’s grateful, even if it scares him that Lancelot can do something so painful without him even waking up. What else could he have done in this vegetative state Merlin so often falls into? 

 

Lancelot settles them in the hollow of an enormous tree. The huge foliage here reminds Merlin of the town so close to his childhood home. Witch’s Lake. It’s said that a coven grew that forest to be supersized so the northern creatures torn from their homes by loggers could have enough places to move to. Even though it isn’t the same place, it’s nice to think it might be. 

 

They can both fit under the roots of one tree, with a little fire at the base of them, directing the blessed warmth inwards. It was so cold in that damp, dirty place… Merlin’s right arm manages to twitch, though he can’t find the muscles to move it fully. Thankfully, Lancelot is watching him like a hawk, which means he’s at Merlin’s side in a heartbeat. Merlin twitches his hand a little.

 

His best friend holds it gently, rubbing the back with his thumbs. Merlin closes his eyes.

 

Lancelot.

 

Safe.

  
  
  


_...Mother? _

 

Her face is loving and gentle and soft, but stained with tears and twisted in grief. Who hurt her? Merlin will fight them. She combs a motherly hand through his hair. It burns his skin, and he cries out when he tries to move away. His wings have been slung very precariously on his mother’s furniture, and his limbs are also wrapped and casted in whatever way they could possibly be. 

 

Once Merlin gets himself together, he croaks, “Lancelot.” It’s basically the only word he’s said in over a month, not being able to muster much more energy or sanity to construct longer sentences. He isn’t sure he knows any other words anymore. 

 

“He’s gone to Camelot,” explains Merlin’s mother, drying her cheeks. “For Gaius.”

 

_ Gaius _ . Merlin sinks into his mother’s rickety old mattress, which is almost worse than sleeping on the cold ground, and lets his mind wander to his elderly mentor. To Camelot itself, shining with glory. He can see Arthur in his mind’s eye, talking to the King -- gods, Merlin’s never been so relieved to see the King’s stern face -- and there’s Gwen, and… Morgana.

 

_ Can you see me? _

 

Is any of this real? 

 

Morgana nods discreetly, trying not to alert the others. Suddenly, Merlin is  _ there _ , though it’s strangely dream-like in that he doesn’t appear to be touching anything. He feels broken, used, scared, damaged, but he’s glad to see Lady Morgana after so long away. She slides away from the rest, down a corridor. Merlin follows her. 

 

“Merlin,” she hisses, reaching out to touch him. Merlin jumps backwards, but it doesn’t matter, because she can’t touch him anyway. “Where are you?” 

 

_ I’m home. My mother’s house. Lancelot’s coming for Gaius. _ Merlin can’t speak normally, forced to use their mental link to convey information. 

 

“You look awful,” Morgana whispers, covering her mouth as it twists with grief. “Are you okay?”

 

Merlin looks at his feet, lost. He doesn’t know how to answer that question. He doesn’t even know if he’s better than he was. He could die overnight. 

 

“...Merlin?”

 

“Merlin!”

 

He jolts awake, yelling at the pain it causes him, to see Lancelot’s kind eyes peering over him. His mother’s voice is somewhere in the background, along with…  _ Gaius _ ! Merlin struggles to sit up, desperate to see his mentor, while Lancelot tries to keep him in bed. 

 

“Oh my poor boy,” laments Gaius, running over to tend him. Merlin clutches at Gaius’s shoulders in relief, even though the touch makes his skin crawl something awful. “Let’s see what we can do.” 

  
  
  


Lancelot holds Merlin’s hand while Gaius bandages and cleans and splints and heals. His mother fetches fresh water and herbs for Gaius, as much as she can. They work late into the night trying to save Merlin’s life, and it makes Merlin cry for how hard they are trying to keep him. 

 

The pain abates, leaving just dull aches and a large headache. Merlin smiles weakly at each of them in turn, then drifts off to the land of dreams. 

  
  
  


_ Where are you going? _

 

Arthur is on horseback, riding somewhere. He is alone, save for Hengroen and his trusty sword. No Camelot colors fly on his back. The Prince -- perfect, golden, noble, true -- ignores Merlin’s question.

 

He asks it again.  _ Where are you going? _

 

Hengroen never falters. Arthur shakes his golden hair out of his face and rides harder. 

 

_ Arthur? _

 

_ Can’t you hear me? _

 

The horse bucks upwards as Arthur yanks on the reins. He soothes and steadies Hengroen as he looks around at himself the darkened twilight world. “Merlin?” he cries out, whirling his horse in circles. “How can I hear you?” 

 

_ Where are you going? _

 

“I’m coming to you! You are home, right? You’re still with your mother? Merlin?”

 

_ You’re… coming for me? _ Merlin can scarcely believe it.  _ I  didn’t think you’d noticed I was gone. _

 

“What do you mean? You’ve been gone for months! I’ve been worried sick about you, you idiot! You’d  _ better  _ still be alive when I get there!” Arthur rears Hengroen and darts forth at a gallop. Merlin loses the connection.

  
  
  


He awakens to dim morning light streaming into his mother’s house, the smell of broth wafting through the air, the sounds of clucking chickens and muffled voices from outside. A slight weight rests on Merlin’s bandaged chest. It’s a hand, but not warm brown like Lancelot’s. Gold-skinned and supple, calloused, strong, familiar.

 

“Arthur.”

 

“Merlin!” Arthur jumps awake, having nodded off in the chair next to Merlin’s mother’s bed. “You had me worried sick, you bumpkin!” He begins to comb his rough, familiar fingers through Merlin’s sweat-soaked hair, and Merlin squirms away, trying to sit up. “No no, don’t move. Don’t move. It’s alright.” Prince Arthur takes Merlin’s limp hand in his own and squeezes it gently. “I’m going to look after you.” 


End file.
